Beloved Enemy (24 page)

“Heretical? You
are
mad.”

“It is not I who am mad.” Louis crossed himself. “Only this morning I found out that many of the Christian churches have been decorated by Saracen painters! Impious! And you have the effrontery to ask me to support such a man?” His voice was edged with spite; his whole body taut with rage.

Eleanor was speechless. This was a Louis she had not seen before. His excessive religiosity had always been a sore point between them, but now it seemed to have reached a pitch of fanaticism blinding him to the very purpose of the crusade itself. Behind this Eleanor sensed a deeper enmity. The ancient hostility between Franks and Aquitainians, north and south, had been building to a climax ever since the crusade began.

No, no, no! How could she have been so blind? The tension had begun long ago; she had seen it from the very beginning of their marriage, starting with the betrothal ceremony in Bordeaux, but refused to acknowledge it for what it was. The years in Paris had exacerbated their differences, the crusade brought them to a head. Raymond represented all that the Franks hated and feared. Pleasure. Enjoyment. Sensuality. Freedom of expression. Tolerance. The encouragement of novel ideas that might threaten the status quo.

Nor was that the whole tale. At the bottom of it all, coiled like a venomous serpent, lay Louis’s jealousy. He sensed her attraction to Raymond, a kindred spirit reminding her of her beloved Aquitaine. Louis’s underlying hatred for all she represented had finally erupted. Eleanor knew he would never lift a finger to help her uncle.

Chilled by this knowledge, she fled the chamber. Filled with disquiet by her failure, shaken at this unexpected glimpse of her husband’s true feelings, Eleanor sought out Raymond. As they walked across the mosaic-tiled floor Eleanor told him what had transpired.

“So, the king of France led thousands of people on a dangerous and lengthy journey that has already cost many hundreds of lives merely to boast he has prayed at the Holy Sepulcher?” Raymond shook his head. “It is beyond belief.” He looked at Eleanor. “My heart goes out to you, Niece. Had my brother any inkling of what lay in store for you, he would never have entrusted your future to Fat Louis of France.”

Remembering her initial refusal to marry Louis, Eleanor was sufficiently moved to swallow a surge of grief. Had she followed her own instincts then …

“Such a waste of beauty and youth and spirit.” Raymond again shook his head and fell silent. When he spoke it was almost to himself. “I will not allow Louis to do this injury to the House of Aquitaine, nor to me personally. He will regret what he has done—or rather what he has failed to do. As God is my witness, he shall pay dearly for this sin of omission.”

“But what can you do?” Eleanor stared at him, half fearful, half intrigued. In just this defiant manner had she heard her father threaten his enemies.

Raymond bestowed upon her an enigmatic smile.

T
HE NEXT MORNING LOUIS
and his entourage, accompanied by Constance, paid a visit to St. Peter’s Church to hear a special noon mass. After that they planned to visit an ancient monastery that lay just outside the city walls. Eleanor, furious with Louis and unwilling to join him anywhere, sent her women while she remained in the palace.

When the bells rang for Sext, she was sulking in a wooden tub of perfumed hot water. Since her arrival in the principality she had taken to bathing every other day, a luxury she had never indulged in before. But in Outremer, she had been told, both men and women went to the public baths two or three times a week. Alone for the first time since the crusade had started, the ubiquitous eunuchs and serving girls strangely absent, she welcomed this rare moment of privacy.

Closing her eyes, Eleanor lay back in the tub, aware of the mingled musky odors given off by burning incense and bowls of freshly picked anemones. The heady scent always seemed to waft through the rooms and corridors of the palace. Through the open window that overlooked the tiled court came the soothing murmur of a splashing fountain. This was followed by the soft strings of a lute. How familiar the melody sounded. What was it? Of course! “The Infallible Master,” one of her grandfather’s songs. Eleanor smiled in delight and began to sing aloud along with the music.

When she heard someone enter the chamber she paid no attention, assuming one of the serving girls had returned. It was not until a deep voice joined her in the chorus that Eleanor’s eyes flew open.

Raymond, his robe fallen to the Persian carpet, was just getting into the tub with her.

He slid down into the steamy perfumed water but not before she had glimpsed a tall muscular body with broad shoulders and flat belly. His chest was covered with a pelt of curly bronze hair, the plumage of his manhood a deeper bronze.

“You don’t mind if I join you?” he asked, as if this were the most natural occurrence. His eyes rested on her breasts, floating on the water like round shimmering pearls tipped with coral.

Eleanor, whose heart had begun to drum, slid deeper under the water. She could think of nothing to say.

“I’ve dismissed the servants,” he said in a casual voice. “We won’t be disturbed.”

There was a long silence while Raymond smiled at her. “Stand up,” he said softly.

Eleanor could not bring herself to comply. She shook her head.

“Surely you’re not afraid?”

She nodded.

He raised his brows. “No granddaughter of the Troubadour can be guilty of false modesty.” He paused. “Because I am your uncle?”

She nodded again.

“Do you feel as if I am your uncle?”

“Not—not at this moment, I don’t.”

“At any time since your arrival in Antioch?”

She shook her head.

“Well then? Are we not in truth two strangers who, by a fortunate stroke of fate, have found one another in an alien land? As the Moslems would say,
inshallah
—as God wills.”

Eleanor was not looking at it in quite that way, but … She stood up in the tub, the water pouring in crystal rivulets down her body. For a long moment she watched Raymond leisurely examine her with the heavy-lidded eyes of a connoisseur. It was the first time a man had ever really looked at her naked, and Eleanor found a warm reassurance in the seasoned glance that traveled slowly and appreciatively from the arch of her neck, across the uptilted breasts, down her slender body to the silky chestnut fringe covering her sex.

“Quite, quite charming. You cannot imagine how lovely you are, sweet Nell,” he said, using the name only her immediate family ever used. He reached up; one finger lightly brushed the tip of a pointed nipple.

The ripple of excitement that swept through her was so unexpected that a lump formed in Eleanor’s throat. Leisurely, Raymond stood up and held out his arms. In one quick step she was pressed tightly against him. She could feel the wet hair of his chest tickling her breasts, the strength of his arms closing around her. When he bent his head to touch her lips, the slow kiss spread through her like melting honey. Although she had no mind to resist him, she knew she could not have resisted if she tried.

Famished for years, Eleanor could no longer repress her hunger for passion and affection. When Raymond carried her to the bed, casually sweeping aside a tray of figs and honied almonds, and laid her gently down upon the scented linen sheets, she was already in a fever of desire. A small part of her remained detached, reminding her that this was her blood uncle, obviously a practiced voluptuary, and she did not truly love him, but none of that mattered. She was helpless, in thrall to her own overpowering need.

“Has Louis come to your bed since arriving in Antioch?” Raymond asked, as his hands cupped her breasts, lifting them, stroking the taut flesh, watching the coral nipples become firm as pebbles.

“He has made a vow to be celibate until he prays at Christ’s tomb,” Eleanor whispered, her eyes closing under the mounting pleasure of his slow and deliberate caresses.

“I might have known. Pity. Still, there is more than one kind of pleasure. I doubt you have ever known any with that monk you married. Am I right?”

Eleanor, no longer capable of speech, wished he would stop talking. He had taken a nipple into his mouth, and began to tease it with his tongue, causing a wave of rapture to surge through her body. She pressed his head tightly against her breasts, savoring the feel of his lips.

“What a great hurry we’re in,” he said in a lazy voice, lifting his head.

His fingers slid down her hips to stroke the silken hair that lay between the apex of her thighs. When she felt him gently probe the warm mystery of her sex, she thought she would faint, momentarily embarrassed at the flood of moisture released by his touch. He bent his head to her breast again.

Caught in a whirlpool of liquid fire, Eleanor was totally unprepared for the overpowering frenzy of her response. Raymond’s practiced fingers seemed to know exactly where to go, stroking, pausing just where the feeling was so exquisite. Within moments she was drowning in a wave of ecstasy that gradually spent itself upon a golden strand. A voice she did not recognize screamed aloud. Afterward she knew it for her own. But by then Raymond had stuffed a fig into her mouth.

She opened her eyes and started to laugh, almost choking on the fig. Raymond looked down at her with an amused expression.

“Sweet Jesu, that was a fire that needed quenching! Smoldering for years, if I’m any judge, and I flatter myself that I am.”

Eleanor, totally at peace with her body, gave a luxuriant sigh of contentment as she stretched limp arms above her head and chewed the remains of the fig.

“I must confess I’ve been forced to console myself on occasion,” she said. “But that, I now see, was a pale substitute.”

Raymond rolled his eyes. “Like trying to put out a raging bonfire with a trickle of water. What a pity I may not introduce you to the total joys that a full consummation would provide. But since Louis does not honor your bed, that would be too hazardous. One cannot take the chance.”

Eleanor propped herself up on one elbow. “Now, what would you like me to do—”

Raymond held up his hand. “Oh my dear, there is a surfeit of carnal joys to be had here in the East, where they are masters of the sensual. These joys come in various sizes, shapes, and colors, and I’ve sampled them all. I need nothing. To please you has given me immense pleasure.”

He gave her his lazy smile that reminded her now of the boy he had been. “No pangs of conscience about Louis? Or the Church?” She shook her head. “Good. As my father used to say, these little sins of the flesh are the least of God’s worries.”

She smiled her agreement, wondering why it was that only fellow Aquitainians seemed to share her outlook on life. After a few moments she sat up and started to get out of bed. He pulled her back down onto the rumpled sheets.

“And where are you going in such a rush?”

“Oh, well, I thought—”

“My dear Nell, this afternoon we are not going to think but to feel, and we are going about this matter with no haste whatsoever. There is still plenty of time. What a delightful innocent you are in these matters. That was only the beginning. There are many more fires to set alight—then quench.”

By the time the bells rang for None, Eleanor had received an education in the art of love she would not have believed possible. Without actually entering her, Raymond had led her through a veritable garden of delights, teaching her to savor each one. Even Petronilla would envy her, she thought with satisfaction. She could hardly wait until she returned to France to tell her sister all the blissful details.

Her only regret—if indeed regret was the word—had been a moment when she wished that her heart was as enraptured as her body. She had been aware of a void, as if the experience, satisfying as it had been, had only rippled the surface when, in truth, she longed to be overwhelmed, shaken to the depths, possessed to the very core of her being.

Still, she was grateful for what Raymond had taught her: that in the leisurely hands of an expert minstrel, her body would respond sweetly, like a fine-tuned lute. More importantly, she knew that the feminine, sensual side of her nature, having now been fully awakened, could never be easily sublimated again. Nor did she want it to be.

“You can see what Louis has been denying you all these years,” Raymond said. “Say what you will about the infidel, but when I think of all the strictures the Church has placed against the act of love, I thank God I live in a more civilized land. The Mohammedans hold that if married couples do not bed at least once a week there are grounds for dissolving the marriage!”

“If that were true in France, Louis and I would have separated within the first two weeks!” Eleanor sighed as she pulled on her chemise and gown. “How can I continue to live with that monk and not take leave of my wits?”

Her uncle, clad now in a shimmering purple robe, reclined against a heap of rose and lavender pillows while a honey-skinned serving girl—who had glided silently into the chamber only moments after she and Raymond had finished—served him aromatic wine and a fresh platter of dates, figs, and glistening slices of orange quince dipped in honey. Eleanor wondered if the girl had been listening at the door.

“Would you like to rid yourself of him?”

“Of course. But that is impossible.”

“Difficult, yes, impossible, no. Have you forgotten that you and Louis are related in a degree forbidden by the church? Third or fourth cousins if I’m not mistaken.”

Eleanor stared at him. She had totally forgotten—if, indeed, she had ever known they were distantly related. “But no one said anything about consanguinity at the time. The marriage was rushed through as if I were already carrying his child. Abbé Suger and the archbishop of Bordeaux must have known!”

“Consanguinity is conveniently forgotten when a marriage is desired, instantly remembered when it is no longer desirable. Someone wants to be rid of an unwanted wife and suddenly it is discovered they are third, fourth, fifth cousins!”

“But Louis would never agree to an annulment.”